


Sleeping With A Friend

by LeeBarnett



Category: Phineas and Ferb
Genre: A/B/O, Courtship, Heat Cycles, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omegaverse, Scenting, Self Lubrication, a/b/o dynamics, courting, courtship dynamics, long fic, tags to be updated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-02-07 08:58:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12837762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeeBarnett/pseuds/LeeBarnett
Summary: And why mess up a good thing, baby?It’s a risk to even fall in loveSo, when you give that look to meI better look back carefully‘Cause this is trouble, yeah this is troubleI said ooh, oohYou got me in the mood, moodI’m scaredBut if my heart’s gonna break before the night will endI said, ooh, ooh we’re in dangerSleeping with a friend





	1. Prologue | Nemeses

**Author's Note:**

> hello and welcome to my life's work basically lmao
> 
> this is kalei/kaleidoscope! some of you may have seen me talk about it before or mention it, or some of you may have read some drafts of it. basically, this is the huge huge huge 200k+ monster i've been working on on and off for a couple years rn. it's a self indulgent dumpster fire of angst and smut and terrible tropes but hopefully this'll be fun for more than just me ;0 
> 
> no update schedule atm bc im not done editing and im slowly working thru my first draft and fixing it since i sort of wrote it from the inside out for the first round. we'll see how it goes, we're all just here to have fun ;0 
> 
> As always, special thanks to Doc for helping me write this, being an absolutely fantastic and patient beta and basically the best thing to ever happen to me ;3 
> 
> Also big thanks to Maggie and Papaya for betaing and prereading, yall are the stars of my heart <3 
> 
>  
> 
> **Please make sure you check the tags for this work before reading. The tags will be updated as the story progresses. This fic contains many dark themes, events, and unhealthy behaviors, and so on. Please take care of yourselves.**

_.......January 15th_

* * *

 

A soft click, a whir, and gentle light washed through the room, outlining a burly, looming figure standing by the door. It stepped forward, light reflecting in half-circles off the dark lenses of a pair of goggles set above an upturned nose and a thin mouth pressed in an unemotional line.

A shadow lay heavy over the man’s face, cast by the brim of his black fedora.

He kept walking forward, tucking his hands casually into his pockets, as his footsteps echoed throughout the stripped interior of the warehouse. His shadow stretched out behind him, turning thinner and flickering as the light started to blink slowly, gradually gaining speed until it matched the pulse of a racing heart.

The man tilted his head back, mouth parting as he took a slow breath, halting in his slow pace to look around the skeletal room, taking in grungy brick and stained concrete, a couple rusted doors and dirty concrete floors. Some decrepit shelving leaned against the wall under smudged windows, providing very few places to hide.

_“You won’t find me that way.”_

The man turned on his heel, head tilting to one side, listening to the sudden voice as it added, _“You shouldn’t be here.”_

The man pulled his hands out of his pockets and spread them wide, rotating on his heel until he had turned all the way around, and then turning again in the opposite direction.

“ _This is private property_ ,” the voice said, and the man waved a hand at the source of the light, a small metallic box about a square meter large, with a glass porthole-like cap on top. The light pulsed from the glass dome, dimming and blinking rapidly until every flash made the warehouse look like stills from a flipbook.

“ _Don’t touch it_ ,” the voice snapped, and the man started walking closer to the box, which was lying in the middle of the floor, an open toolbox spilling its contents beside it in an arc.

“ _I said don’t touch it!”_ The owner of the voice appeared, a tall, slimmer figure stepping out of the shadows in a corner sheltered by gnarled shelving. He was clad in black from head to toe, eyes narrowed into slivers through a black mask as the two men took each other in.

The man in the fedora turned to fully face the speaker, eyes invisible behind the dark lenses of his goggles as he looked over the other’s stiff posture, lingering on what little identifying features were left exposed through the holes in his mask.

“You were _really_ annoying last time you showed up, so don’t even think about touching that inator,” the man in the mask said, pointing an accusing, gloved finger. “I’m not even setting the damn thing off, why are you _here?”_

The first man paused and then dug around in one of the pockets of his suit jacket, eventually coming up with a small card, bent at one corner.

He held it out, and after a minute the masked man came close enough to take it, long, dark trench coat swirling around his body as he moved. The man’s mouth parted slightly as the masked man took the card, drawing in a shallow breath before frowning as he let it out.

“‘ _Agent Peter the Panda,_ ” the second man read from the card, squinting in the flickering light. “ _Oh-double-you-see-ay Agent, the Organization Without a Cool Acronym.’_ Wow, you’re not kidding, that’s worse than _my_ pseudonym.” The masked man lifted his gaze to take in the Agent in front of him, face obscured by the shadow cast by his hat and the goggles over his eyes.

“So you’re an O.W.C.A. agent. What are you doing here, then? I can understand crashing my project once, I was sorta sloppy setting up shop in that alley, but my client was in a hurry.”

The Agent shrugged, pointing at the card and then at the masked man, one eyebrow lifting minutely above the rim of his goggles.

“What…? Oh, who am I? None of your damn business, that’s who,” the masked man said, shoving the O.W.C.A. card into his pocket. “Certainly not someone who needs to be thwarted by some Agency goon. I’m not going to turn the thing on, I just make them. Which I suppose could be seen as sort of an _evil_ thing, considering what some of them do, but I’m just the supplier, really, you should be going after my clients if anybody…” The Agent gave yet another nod, the corner of his mouth curling just slightly as the masked man trailed off, reaching up to tug the collar of his coat up around his ears.

“Oh, you already are, aren’t you,” he said, scowling when the Agent nodded again. “So now you’re coming after me, too.” The Agent nodded once more, the smile tugging at the side of his mouth twitching before disappearing as the masked man pulled out the card again, frowning down at it.

“Peter the Panda,” he said again, rubbing a thumb over the card. “Hey, isn’t that the sort of codename they give to agents with a nemesis?” The masked man looked up in time to catch the faintest smile flicker over Panda’s mouth, and the man pointing a finger in his direction.

“Wait, have you been assigned as _my_ —” The rest of the sentence was cut off as Peter the Panda, O.W.C.A. Agent, sucker punched his new nemesis right in the face, sending him stumbling.

“Ow! _Ow!_ ” the masked man said, cupping his jaw and giving the Agent a horrified look. “But—but I didn’t even _apply_ , and there’s no way I’ve done anything _personally_ that would warrant—hey, get the fuck away from that, it’s worth five thousand dollars!” the masked man protested as Panda whirled to grab the inator blinking on the floor, dragging it up off the ground with a grunt.

“Don’t, you’ll destabilize the core, you idiot—” the man cried, but it was too late. The light fluttering from the glass cap abruptly went out, plunging the warehouse into darkness.

A moment of silence reigned, and then the masked man cursed explosively, the sound of something being kicked echoing around the barren room.

“Well, now it’s fucking useless, are you happy?” the man snarled, pulling a cell phone out of his pocket and using it to light the room. He managed to locate his nemesis, who was still holding the broad box at an awkward angle, looking mildly confused.

“Weeks of work, ruined in a few fucking seconds by some government goon,” the masked man growled, stalking up to Panda and shoving at his shoulder with one hand. “Put that the hell down, it’s going to start leaking acid any second, do you _want_ to get burned?” the Agent quickly set the box down and a moment later there was the quiet hiss of chemicals eating at the concrete.

The villain groaned, shining his screen down over his ruined project.

“Weeks,” he grumbled. “ _Weeks_ , Peter the fucking Panda, weeks of my life and my flawless reputation and several thousand dollars I will never get back. I _hate_ you.” Panda grunted, the sound a touch amused, and the masked man growled under his breath, angling the phone to inspect where the concrete was bubbling a little.

“E is gonna kill me,” he muttered, straightening up with a sigh. Panda made an inquisitive sound and the masked man glared at him, waving a hand around at the dingy warehouse. “Owns the building. What, you think I’m some sort of billionaire that lives in a penthouse and builds inators in crappy warehouses for kicks?” The man snorted and Panda shrugged.

The Agent checked his watch, and the masked man did the same with his phone.

“Ugh, it’s four AM,” he groaned. “Fuck you very much, now I’ve been up all night for nothing.” Panda grunted as his nemesis socked him in the jaw, hard enough to make the villain shake out his hand, grimacing in regret. Panda lunged for the man, but he simply dodged out of the way, tucking his phone into his pocket and plunging the warehouse into darkness once more.

Panda stilled, blinking rapidly behind his goggles to adjust to the darkness, mouth falling open to take another deep breath, searching for traces of his nemesis in the air.

“ _I already told you that won’t work_ ,” the masked man’s voice echoed around the warehouse, and Panda tilted his head, trying to pinpoint the source. “ _Trying to scent me out won’t do you any good, I’ve worked very hard to make sure my identity remains a mystery_.” There was a muffled chuckle, and Panda groaned, putting a hand to his watch and twisting the face before pushing a button on the side. Light spilled from the surface and he tilted his wrist, shining it around the warehouse just in time to see the edge of a dark coat vanishing through the main doors. Panda growled and gave chase, exiting the warehouse and ending up standing on the pavement. Looking back and forth along the street, he took in the cars passing in the drizzling rain, a few pedestrians huddled under umbrellas brushing past him.

Panda growled again, tapping at his watch and glowering when it just beeped at him.

Turning left, Panda nearly crashed into someone, someone tall and thin, hair frizzy and wild from the rain.

“Watch it!” the man snapped, adjusting his thick-framed glasses and yanking his long trench coat closed around his dark clothes before brushing off Panda’s apologetic look and shouldering past him. Panda headed in the opposite direction, eyes scanning for any sign of his masked and mildly dramatic nemesis, completely missing the man he’d bumped into stopping at the corner to turn and look back at him.

He didn’t have an umbrella, so his thick curls were quickly drooping to cling to his head and face, framing round eyes behind squared lenses perched on a long nose, his full mouth curling into a smirk.

“Peter the Panda,” the man muttered under his breath, looking down at his pocket, the corner of a black mask sticking out around his wrist where his hand was shoved into it, “you’re bound to be a pain in my ass, aren’t you.” The man sighed, pushing the mask deeper into his pocket to hide it completely before turning on his heel and crossing the street, pulling his phone free to call a taxi.

“Name,” the bored-sounding dispatcher asked when he asked for a pick-up a couple blocks down from the warehouse.

“Miggs Ortega,” he said, glancing down as the edge of a bit of paper caught on the hand in his pocket. Pulling it out, he rubbed a thumb over the slightly-bent O.W.C.A. card. Flipping it over, he smirked as he read it, both the front and the back, the words a bit blurry from the water on his glasses.

 

**Peter the Panda**

**O.W.C.A. AGENT**

**_Organization Without a Cool Acronym_ **

—

_Nemesis of Professor Mystery._

 


	2. 01 | What's in a name?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, posting 2 chapters within hours of each other: yolo
> 
> as always, love and gratitude to doc, maggie, and papaya <3

_......January 7th _

* * *

 

A few days before, Peter had only a faint idea how annoying having Mystery as a nemesis would be. 

He’d had covers be compromised before. He’d been exposed by a particularly gifted computer cracker, a slip of the tongue of a fellow undercover agent who’d had too many to drink at a gala or who’d been too entranced by a pretty pair of Omega eyes to realize he was being duped. He’d changed names more in the last ten years than he could count. Peter Johnson, Peter Jones, Peter Howard, Peter Payne, Peter this, Peter that. 

“Peter Orso.” 

Beverly Hoffman was a stern woman around ten or twenty years Peter’s senior, tall for a beta woman, but she still had to tilt her head back a little to look him in the face when they were both standing. 

It took him a moment to respond to her; he hadn’t been called  _ Peter Orso _ in a decade. Still, he snapped off a salute quick enough that a frown didn’t touch the already naturally downturned corners of her mouth, and she gestured for him to relax. Her office was impeccably clean and organized, but still comfortable, even the guest chairs were nice to sit in for more than ten minutes, and the air carefully filtered so it wouldn’t offend any sensitive noses. There was a single file on her desk, resting under her folded hands on top of a big calendar, which was covered in cramped shorthand that even Peter couldn’t decipher without several hours and perhaps a magnifying glass. 

“You  _ do  _ recall your own name, don’t you, Agent?” she asked, smirking when Peter twitched a couple fingers in acknowledgment. “Good, since you’ll be using it for a while.” Peter straightened in his chair, hands coming up to form a question but halting mid-sign when she gave him a firm look. 

“You recall the other night when you came across a masked man building something behind Two Bells Tavern?” Peter nodded hesitantly, frowning as he recalled the brief scuffle between him and the wiry suspect, who had completely abandoned his project at the first sign of trouble in the alley behind the little bar on fourth avenue. Most villains Peter had dealt with preferred to defend their inators (usually while monologuing about what they did; he swore most of them got their acts right out of the How to be Evil 101 handbook or something), rather than turn tail and run with O.W.C.A. inevitably showed up. 

“It took us a few days to identify him, since we were sort of looking in the wrong place,” Hoffman said, flicking open the folder and spreading out a few documents. Peter leaned forward to look, frowning slightly. There were only a couple of photos, all of them blurry shots from security footage, usually the side or back of a head, all of them masked. It was the same man though, Peter was sure, matching the coat and ski mask to the one in his memory, along with the same tall, slim build. “He’s not a villain, not technically, though he is classified as  _ ‘Evil’  _ under the Agency’s guidelines. He’s known only as the Professor, or Professor M. We’ve encountered him a few times before, but he always slips away, and we don’t have a civilian identity for him. The villains that know of him and are willing to speak of him—apparently  _ every  _ villain knows who this guy is—call him _ Professor Mystery  _ because he’s a bit of a black sheep even in their community.” Peter’s frown deepened as he reached forward to flick through the rest of the papers in the folder. There weren’t many, a couple reports with a few lines highlighted where a villain in Detroit had mentioned  _ commissioning from Professor M _ and  _ blueprints by mystery, _ the  _ ‘m’  _ circled with a  _ ‘M?’ _ scrawled next to it. A receipt for a warehouse rental place signed by a  _ Prof. M _ . Startlingly little to go on, especially compared to the average villain’s M.O. and O.W.C.A.’s vast resources. 

“The only other thing we have is this,” Hoffman said, pulling out a tablet and turning it to face him. A website was pulled up, entirely black with a white M at the top in a simple graphic, below it a window to enter a message, name, and email address. “We assume it’s how the villains contact Mystery, in order to procure devices from him. If we’re correct, this man is one of the biggest arms dealers in North America, possibly even the world. The  _ only  _ villain to never even hint at having used his services is one in the Tri-State Area, but he’s…” She paused, frowning slightly before continuing, “different, and we have a top agent on his case already. But this man,” she tapped a finger against the tablet’s screen, where the M arched over the top of the website, “is a whole new ballgame. We’ve never had to handle the likes of this, we usually leave arms dealers to agencies like the FBI and CIA. But this  _ Professor  _ only works with villains, specifically villains that want inators and izers and so on, doesn’t deal with small-time criminals or gangs, but won’t work with mass organizations like the mob or terror groups, either.” 

_ Catfish him _ , Peter signed, shrugging.  _ Send a fake email, get him that way _ . 

“You think we haven’t tried?” Hoffman asked wryly, setting the tablet aside. “The Blues have tried every trick they know, and nothing. No response. I don’t know how, but he’s screening the emails, tell who’s really a villain and who’s not. Even the couple moles we have in the community couldn’t get him to respond, which is also odd.” Peter nodded in agreement, rubbing at his chin thoughtfully. If this Professor M knew who the spies O.W.C.A. had in the villain community were, why hadn’t he exposed them instead of just ignoring them? If Peter didn’t know villains so well through his work, he almost would have thought that the man was sitting closer to on the fence between the two sides than most. 

“We need a different approach,” Hoffman said, sliding the tablet out of the way and folding her hands over her desk again. “Which, as I’m sure you’ve figured out, is why I’ve pulled you from the field.” Peter scowled a little at that, hands coming up to protest. 

_ Desk work? I know the computer cracking I did before got me— _ he began, but Hoffman shook her head. 

“No, not pencil pushing, you’re too good outside the cubicle for that,” she said, waving a hand. “You are actually the only agent to have ever encountered Professor Mystery in person, let alone stopped him from completing and shipping off a piece.” 

_ It was chance, _ Peter signed in protest.  _ He’ll have skipped town by now. _ Hoffman hummed, slipping the papers back into the folder and pushing it at him to take. 

“That’s for you to find out, isn’t it?” she asked, pulling open a drawer to take out a small stack of business cards. “You’ve been assigned as his nemesis—this wasn’t  _ my  _ decision, mind you, it came from higher up, so don’t make that face at me. I did manage to make a compromise for you: if you can’t track him down again in the next month, we’ll pull you from the case and you’ll be back on undercover detail like before.” She pushed the cards at him and tucked her jaw-length dark hair behind one of her ears as he glanced over them. He’d never had cards before, since most of his assignments had depended on him  _ not  _ being revealed as an Agent, but he’d never had an assigned nemesis before, either. “We have figured out how to monitor when he’s online, though we can’t track the source of the signal. Seems he checks his site fairly often, and there’s a surge every once in awhile which we assume means he’s taking on projects. It’s usually followed by an uptick in the villain community’s quality of devices. It would be a  _ huge  _ advantage for us if Professor Mystery was to be thwarted, even just some of the time. Even better, if it’s a permanent affair. But we  _ do  _ want him alive, Panda.” Peter hid his surprise with the ease of long practice, the briefest of blinks being the only sign in his otherwise unfazed demeanor that what Hoffman had ordered was anything out of the usual. 

While O.W.C.A. stopped villains from carrying out their nefarious (and sometimes ridiculous) plots for world domination (or street domination, if you were the poor sap assigned to Gargamel the Evil...Peter was pretty sure he called himself a  _ wizard,  _ but he couldn’t really believe it, in Pennsylvania), they usually didn’t make arrests or any other move to halt a villain in their tracks, let alone someone who only  _ technically  _ qualified as Evil. O.W.C.A. usually left that up to local law enforcement, since O.W.C.A.’s biggest advantage was its secrecy. Villains knew about the agency of course, but most civilians were more than happy to ignore the half-war happening between the good guys and the bad ones in most major cities. No need for the general populace to fly into a panic over the low-rate schemer with too much time on his hands just because he built a time-distort-inator. If O.W.C.A. was throwing villains in prison all the time it would be too public to perform the covert operations that, until today, Peter had usually been a part of. There were exceptions of course, villains bent on mass murder or enslavement, anything that caused lasting or permanent damage to innocents, but most villains were more eccentric and angry than truly malicious, and O.W.CA. nearly always put a stop to any villainous behavior that could bloom into anything truly dangerous. 

“I’m sure you’re wondering where your name comes into this,” Hoffman said, interrupting Peter’s train of thought as she pulled out a second folder, which was only slightly thicker than the first. “As I’m sure you’re well aware, you’ve had nearly every pseudonym under the sun with your work, and you’ve done well maintaining most covers on your own. But this is a long gig, Agent, could be years from how slippery Mystery has proved to be. You need a bulletproof cover, one this guy can’t pry up and find the real thing underneath. 

_ O-R-S-O is my real name, _ Peter pointed out, and Hoffman nodded. 

“Exactly. There’s nothing to find. No fake documents, no paper trail, nothing. This cover is as stable as it gets. If he catches wind of you outside the ring, you’re nobody. Your life just stopped when you joined the Agency, Panda. There are zero ties to O.W.C.A. with this identity. Any fake one we came up with would, eventually, lead back to us, one way or another. This one won’t. It’s the most secure option, and it’s not like you were using it anyway.” She laughed and he just glanced down at the new folder in front of her, which probably held all his records from before he’d become an O.W.C.A. agent. 

Handing the folder to him, she went on, “We’ve secured you a position at a local university, where you’ll be teaching introductory engineering. It’s simple work, something to give your landlord at the apartment we picked for you as income. It’s also central to where many of Mystery’s sightings have been, as rare as they are. Start there, and if nothing turns up, or you find a lead that he did move out of the country, we’ll relocate you as needed. Good luck.” Taking both folders and tucking them under his arm, Peter snapped off a salute as he stood, exiting the room and fighting the urge to kick something. 

Nemesis duty.  _ Evasive  _ nemesis duty. It wasn’t something he’d ever thought he’d end up doing for O.W.C.A. since he’d originally been scouted for tech and ended up in field training by mistake. He’d turned out to be good at it, and from there gone from double Colors to covert ops, adding a black band to his already black hat. 

Sighing, Peter flipped open the file on himself, glancing over the apartment lease, job application, and other information sitting on top, memorizing the addresses and other important information. He groaned quietly as he realized how often he was going to have to ride the bus. A motorcycle was not ideal transportation in a place like Seattle, Washington. Maybe he’d get lucky and Mystery had skipped to somewhere nice and tropical instead, far enough off O.W.C.A.’s radar that he’d be able to go back to covert ops. 

But Peter was nothing if not good at his job, and there were only so many rental companies in Seattle that would rent to someone who only gave their name as  _ Prof. M. _ , and from there, it was surprisingly easy. 

The lights in the warehouse went out shortly before he entered, and Peter stepped inside to see the faint glow coming from something sitting on the ground in the middle of the room, a box spilling tools in an arc around it. The place smelled of brick dust and chemicals, engine grease and a hint of blood. A place that was used often for building things, probably by someone who had cut a finger on a sharp edge of metal at some point from the coppery tang. There was no scent of gender, and Peter wondered if that was the result of a well-groomed beta, or a masker. He opened his mouth to scent more deeply, Alpha instincts reaching out into the dark the way a beta never could. He didn’t often use them in his work since they could be overwhelming and distracting, and easily tricked by sprays or pills, but he had to admit he was determined to find out everything he could about this Professor Mystery. 

Then there was a voice. 

_ “You won’t find me that way.”  _

Peter swore silently, cursing his nemesis for turning out so easy to find, and slowly began walking deeper into the warehouse to face everything that awaited him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! 
> 
> comments are love, comments are life
> 
> lmk if we missed any mistakes or [brackets]!


	3. 02 | The L Piece

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit: wheeze i totally forgot to double check that peter's writing in this chap was italicized and it wASNT SORRY FOR ANY CONFUSION THAT CAUSED WH EEZE

_…..January 15th_

* * *

The cupcakes were a little stale, and Miggs wished the college had had the decency to shell out for real food. There was nothing but sweet snack food over at the buffet table. Normally it wasn’t that big of a deal, but he’d only shown up for the free meal, and there was nothing but cookies, cupcakes, and a big carrot cake with the words _We’ll miss you Luke!!_ scrawled over it in looping icing. The cake had been baked today, so Miggs dropped the second cupcake he’d intended to eat in favor of picking up the cake knife and carving a slice right in the middle of the cake, removing the _L_ from the icing and smooshing a bit of the cake to the side of it when he pried his piece free.

Turning around, Miggs looked out over the crowded faculty room, scowling at the clusters of his coworkers talking and laughing, a few of them awkwardly dancing over by the speaker system. Holding his plate in one hand, Miggs squinted as he looked around for a place to sit that wasn’t already occupied or too close to anyone he hated, and instead found himself wandering until he found a stretch of wall to lean against.

Pushing the first cupcake he’d grabbed into his mouth, Miggs watched the rest of the party and wondered how fast he’d be able to leave. He didn’t care if anyone thought it was rude; he’d only been invited because the email had been sent to the whole staff of Seattle Public University, and he’d only shown up to eat something other than what came out of his microwave or a drive-thru window. He and his stove had never been friends, and he’d never made much of an effort to remedy what everyone else seemed to view as a shortcoming in his character. So, actual meals were few and far between, usually only when he was willing to shell out almost fifteen dollars at a restaurant.

Miggs scowled as a couple of people from a different department of the university staggered past, each holding a cup of punch that Miggs knew had been spiked almost an hour ago, going by the heavy scent of whiskey oozing from the bowl on the buffet table. He curled his lip when the couple nuzzled at each other, rubbing their cheeks together and making Miggs lift a hand to cover his nose until they passed. They were stirring up a scent heavy with arousal and sweetness, and Miggs grumbled into his sleeve as they made their way back into the crowd. Miggs lowered a hand to push a cookie into his mouth, scowling at his plate as he realized he’d forgotten a fork to eat his cake with. Sighing, Miggs pushed off the wall and headed back for the buffet table, weaving through the crowd and glaring whenever someone so much as glanced at him. Most of the people at this party weren’t people he interacted with often, and the last thing he needed was someone getting the wrong idea about him.

He made it back to the buffet table without incident, scanning for a fork and trying his best to tune out the conversations around him as other people frequented the table.

“—oh yeah, heard they just bought a house—”

“—just in time too, got the pups on the way now—”

“—shame Luke’s leaving—”

“—this is Peter, he’ll be replacing Luke—”

“Wait, he doesn’t _talk_ ? How’s he supposed to _teach_?”

Miggs looked up at the familiar voice, distaste making his nose wrinkle. Don Richards was standing nearby, holding a plate of his own with a cupcake on it, the frosting smeared onto the plate and the cake half-eaten. Richards was with the Dean of the college, Greg Michaelson, and a man Miggs didn’t recognize. Miggs wasn’t all that surprised he didn’t, his vision was a little bad without his glasses on, and he didn’t really bother to remember names or faces unless he had to to begin with.

“Yes, well, he’s been very highly recommended, and has conveyed he’ll do just fine without a translator—” Michaelson blustered before awkwardly excusing himself.

Miggs glanced over at the new guy, frowning. He was very tall and broad, with dark hair pushed back away from his face and a pair of round sunglasses perched on his nose. Miggs wondered if he was hungover, but the man’s body language seemed alert enough, giving Richards a bland smile. Miggs squinted and noticed a tightness around his eyes that spoke vaguely of irritation as well, and Miggs was a little intrigued. He was rather handsome, radiating an aura of pleasantness that had Miggs snorting as he stabbed his fork into his cake to take a bite, interest evaporating. Just what he needed, another bland _nice_ guy working in the STEM building.

“So, what, are you going to have your students read the whole class? Or are you going to waggle your fingers at them and call that _teaching_?” Richards laughed, his voice carrying a little, and Miggs looked back up, scowling. Miggs had no reason to defend the new guy, but Miggs didn’t like Richards to begin with, particularly when he was bullying people and making inappropriate comments, like he often tried to do with Miggs.

“I’m sure Michaelson did his best to find a more competent teacher than Barnes, Richards,” Miggs called, quickly putting on an expression of indifference and poking at his cake as both men turned to look at him.

“No one is more competent than Luke,” Richards said, scowling at him and waving a hand at where Luke Barnes was chatting with a couple of women from the art department, grinning lecherously as he leaned into their personal space.

“Funny, his students flunking my first quiz of the year always said otherwise,” Miggs said absently, sticking a bite of cake in his mouth and looking up to see both men watching him. Richards looked irritated that Miggs was talking back, and Miggs caught the sharp scent of something like licorice when Richards stepped closer.

“There was nothing wrong with Luke’s teaching, _Ortega_ ,” Richards growled, and Miggs gave him a bored look, swallowing the bite of his cake.

“Everything was wrong with Barnes’ teaching, _Don_ ,” he replied mockingly. “His students didn’t know a precision round housing gearhead from a square one even if they were _labeled_ .” Richards snarled and Miggs gave him a flat look. “Careful, Richards, wouldn’t want Michaelson to see you trying to dominate the one professor in the STEM building that actually knows how to do his fucking job like you’re some sort of instinct-driven Alpha knothead.” Miggs sneered at the thick, sour scent coming from the older man, and a part of Miggs’ brain demanded he back off, step down, _submit_. He ignored it, shoving the rest of his cake into his mouth and plucking up another cupcake and dropping it onto his plate before shouldering past Richards. He headed back for his stretch of wall, leaning against it and looking up in surprise when he realized the man Richards had been trying to bully had followed him.

“What do _you_ want?” Miggs asked, licking the icing off the cupcake with a couple broad strokes from his tongue. The man watched for a second before giving him a friendly smile and pressing the tips of his fingers to his chin and then dropping his hand towards Miggs, both of his hands moving into several other motions that were clearly sign language.

“Sorry, I have no fucking idea what you just said,” Miggs said, squinting at him and taking a subtle breath through his mouth. The man smelled like snowfall (a scent rare in Seattle, where it mostly just rained) and leather, with a thick tang running through it that told Miggs he was an Alpha. Miggs scowled.

“If you’re going to tell me I shouldn’t have butted in on Richards’ pissing contest with you because of my gender—” Miggs stopped as the man shook his head, pausing before pulling a notepad from his pocket. He showed it to Miggs, and Miggs just lifted an eyebrow, which he seemed to take as invitation since he pulled a pen free of the spiral binding and started writing out a message.

_Just saying thanks. He didn’t seem 2 b the type 2 wait 4 me 2 write out a response, so I probably would have been stuck listening 2 his drivel 4 ages if u hadn’t come in. I’m Peter._

Miggs leaned closer so he could actually read the words and then blinked, squinting up at the man—Peter.

“Miggs Ortega,” he said slowly, and when Peter offered Miggs his hand, Miggs took it, and was surprised when Peter didn’t bow his head slightly over it or anything, just shook it, like he would another Alpha’s or beta male’s. “So you’re Barnes’ replacement.” Peter nodded, and Miggs pursed his lips, wondering himself how the man was going to teach when he clearly couldn’t lecture aloud. “Tell me you know how to teach a class, I’ve been stuck putting Barnes’ students through crash courses that eat up _weeks_ of my curriculum just so they can keep up with the rest of the class.”

_This is my 1st teaching job, but I’m sure I can handle it._

Miggs didn’t have to lean forward this time, since Peter stepped closer so he could read, not quite into Miggs’ personal space, but enough that Miggs gave the Alpha a warning glare.

“I’d like to talk to you about how you plan to teach your classes, when you’ve got some time,” Miggs said, ripping a bit of the cupcake off to pop it into his mouth before grimacing. Peter didn’t respond and Miggs looked up to see him frowning slightly, tucking his notepad back into his pocket. “Just so I know what you’re going to cover. Your class is a prereq to get into mine, and I spend enough time going through refreshers as it is with Richards teaching the math course for the degree, not to mention when Barnes was teaching.” The frown vanished and Peter nodded, giving him a friendly look as he waved a hand at the party. Miggs stared at him uncomprehendingly, and Peter pointed at his watch, then waved at the party again, finger tracing the face of his watch clockwise.

“Oh, after this?” Miggs asked, and Peter nodded, looking pleased. “No, I’m stuck with Barnes’ last batch of students this semester anyway, there’s plenty of time before yours hit my class. We can talk later, I only showed up to this snooze-fest for the food.” Miggs popped the rest of the stale, decimated cupcake into his mouth, and Peter shot him a grin that was wider and more teasing than his earlier smile, catching Miggs a bit off guard with his sincerity as he started to sign something that made Miggs squint at him. “What does that one mean?” Peter just shook his head and looked up when someone called his name.

Michaelson was beckoning him over, so Peter gave Miggs a wave goodbye, and then made his way through the crowd to the Dean. Miggs watched him go, tossing his plate into the nearest trashcan and frowning thoughtfully to himself.

Maybe working with the new guy wouldn’t be so bad after all.


	4. 03 | Coffee

_ …..February 8th _

* * *

 

Peter Orso ended up working across the hall from Miggs, and he wasn’t a bad teacher. He used power points and handwritten lectures, but he wrote fast and in clear lettering, and his presentations were engaging and informative. His students, for the most part, were attentive and eager to learn from someone who wasn’t just droning or telling them to read while sitting at his computer checking his email all day. There were a few trouble makers of course, students that tried to take advantage of Orso’s lack of speech, but there was something about the man that could make almost anyone shut down. 

But not Miggs. 

Orso was a little surprised by this, Miggs could tell. Miggs glared up at him, annoyed by the fact that he’d finally been confronted with a coworker that was taller than him. Miggs had shot past the national average of male Omegas while still teenager, and at six foot three he usually stood over most Alphas as well. But Orso was near six foot four or five, and he used the height mercilessly to his advantage, looming over troublesome students and faculty alike. Miggs had been delighted to see him finally cow Richards at one point when the man had been discussing with Orville King about how Orso’s students weren’t getting a proper education because he couldn’t speak. 

But Miggs didn’t appreciate the same tactic being used on him. 

“You’re not as intimidating as you think you are,” Miggs snapped as Orso stood nearby, big and quiet and probably quite intimidating to someone who didn’t know how to make a pressure gun out of a coffee machine, a paper clip, and a rubber glove. Orso blinked and glanced at where Miggs was getting himself coffee in the faculty room. Miggs usually avoided the place, but he’d been up late the night before arguing with E, the man Miggs rented his warehouse from, over the acid burn on the floor (which had eventually been ruled as E’s fault, since he’d been the one to spill the beans to that damn Agent that had been sniffing around Miggs’ trail for the last few weeks). In the end, one cup of coffee from his own machine at home had not been enough to get him through the day. 

Orso frowned and gestured at the coffee machine, wiggling cup in his own hand for emphasis. Miggs blinked, glancing between Orso and his own cup. 

“What, you’re just waiting for the machine?” Miggs asked, and Orso nodded, a smile twitching at the corner of his lips as Miggs started pouring sugar into his cup. “Then what’s the face for, asshole?” Peter looked startled, frowning. “You do know you make a face, right?” Miggs set the sugar aside and stepped back so Orso could pour himself a cup. “It’s all blank and unassuming, but there’s this threat behind it, like you’ll break the arm of the person who makes a wrong move. It’s fucking intimidating, man.” Orso nearly overfilled his styrofoam cup as he stared at Miggs, quickly setting the pot aside when he noticed he was about to spill scalding hot liquid all over his own hand. Orso grimaced, reaching up to rub at the back of his neck sheepishly. 

“Oh my God, you have no idea you’re doing it,” Miggs stared for a second before barking a laugh. Orso looked up at the sound, staring before a smile started creeping across his own features. Miggs set his own coffee aside so he wouldn’t spill it, using one hand to cover his mouth. 

“Oh, fuck, and I thought you made Richards shit himself yesterday on purpose,” Miggs huffed, struggling not to start giggling as he remembered the look on Richards’ face when Orso had walked up to him like he was about to break him in half. “Didn’t you wonder why he scuttled away from you like a roach under light? Alphas don’t  _ do  _ that typically, in case you were unaware.” Orso snorted, tipping a bit of the coffee in his cup down the sink so he could add in creamer and sugar. He set the drink aside to tug out a notepad, giving Miggs an uncertain look. Miggs leaned against the counter and gestured for him to go ahead, taking a drink of his own liquid caffeine. It wasn’t like Orso could always play charades in order to carry on a conversation, and it would be unfair of Miggs to ask him to. 

_ It was only a little bit on purpose. _ Miggs stared for a moment, squinting to see the words before glancing up at Orso’s face, catching the smile hiding in the corner of his mouth. 

“Oh my God, you’re an  _ asshole _ ,” Miggs said, grinning and quickly covering his mouth with one hand again when Orso’s eyes dropped to Miggs’ tooth gap. The Alpha raised an eyebrow at him, and Miggs quickly set his coffee aside. “No, no, I mean—I mean you’re not like—shit, I’m terrible at explaining. What I mean is that you’ve got a sense of humor most people find…inappropriate.” Miggs’ mouth twisted into a wry smile, tracing the rim of his cup with one finger. “You get away with it because you’re an Alpha, but, uh. Anyway. It’s just funny. Because Richards does all that—” Miggs puffed up his chest and arms, scowling, and then dropped the posture, continuing, “And then you come along and blow him out of the water like he’s nothing. Which he is, but he’s so used to being top dog around here, he’s probably going to sulking about it for days.” Miggs snorted and Orso huffed a laugh, scratching out a note and handing the pad to Miggs to read so he could take a sip of his own coffee. 

_ Needs to be taken down a peg, he’s a dick.  _

“Tell me about it,” Miggs growled, pushing the pad back at Orso. “He's a shit to work with at the best of times, even his friends have problems with him. If he didn’t have tenure and a brother on the school board he probably wouldn’t have a job at all.” Miggs took a big gulp of his coffee and tossed the cup in the nearby trash, grimacing at the amount of sugar that had settled at the bottom. “He’s a pain in my ass since he thinks a  _ ‘pretty little Omega should be at home with the pups’  _ instead of teaching.” Miggs paused, glancing up at Orso uncertainly. The man looked irritated, but not in Miggs’ direction, and Miggs felt himself relax slightly. Most Alphas nowadays were pro equal rights, but it wasn’t uncommon for prejudice to crop up. Richards was a prime example. 

_ You’re good at what you do. That’s all that should matter.  _

Miggs blinked at the note, suddenly wishing he had something to do with his hands as he shifted around awkwardly, trying to suppress the flush of pleasure Orso’s words stirred up in his stomach. 

“Thanks,” Miggs said, crossing his arms over his stomach for lack of anything better to do with them. “You, too. Despite the…y’know.” Orso gave an awkward grimace, watching Miggs hesitantly. “What? You obviously don’t want to talk about it, do you think I’m gonna pry it out of you?” Miggs snapped, and Orso blinked and then relaxed, giving Miggs a relieved smile. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Miggs checked the clock on the opposite wall above an aging couch, blowing out a breath. “I’ve got class.” Orso nodded, downing the last of his coffee and tossing the cup into the trash after crushing it in one hand. Miggs paused when Orso put pen to paper again, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth as he thought about something briefly before starting to write. 

Want to grab a bite during break? Still need 2 talk over curriculum & we could trash richards some more. 

Miggs hesitated, glancing between the note and Orso, who didn’t seem to intend anything other than what the note proposed. It didn’t seem like Orso was offering to feed Miggs, just proposing they eat together. 

“Yeah, alright,” Miggs said after a second, fighting a blush when Orso gave him a pleased smile before they parted ways to teach their respective classes.

* * *

 

Orso turned out to be a vegetarian who usually packed his own lunch, and he made faces at Miggs’ bag of fast food until Miggs threatened to stab him with his own fork. He took it surprisingly well, laughing as he pulled out his lesson plans to compare them with Miggs’. 

Miggs tried to squash the warm feeling blooming in his stomach, dismissing it as indigestion from the greasy burger he held in one hand as he looked over Orso’s notes. 

“I can’t read any of this, what the fuck,” Miggs said after a minute, frowning at the odd sort of short-hand Orso used in his personal notes. “What is this, some sort of cipher?” He glanced up to see Orso looking startled and then awkward, pulling out a pen to start translating it for Miggs on his notepad. After a few minutes Miggs managed to match up the code, and though it was slow going for a bit, eventually he was able to read Orso’s original notes. 

“Why the hell would you put your lesson notes in this crazy shorthand, Jesus,” Miggs muttered, going over what Orso had taught already and then moving onto the coming weeks. “Okay, this here? It’s on the first test I give of the year, first day, to check what they know. It’s technically not important in the long run, but it’s good to be sure they were paying attention to everything.” Orso frowned and then nodded, leaning in to make a note next to the lesson. Miggs kept flipping through Orso’s notes, discussing different projects and ideas Peter had, suggesting things here and there, and shooting down a few plans that were outside the students’ realm of ability. 

After lunch, Miggs was fighting not to walk with a bounce, a smile twitching at his lips that had his afternoon classes staring at him in disbelief. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!
> 
> comments are love, comments are life
> 
> lmk if we missed any mistakes or [brackets]!


	5. 04 | Enough 4 2

_…..March 10th_

* * *

 

Peter had a sneaking suspicion Ortega wasn’t quite the asshole everyone else on staff thought he was. The more Peter got to know him, the more the man seemed like he was just a socially awkward Omega who didn’t want to bond or have kids, and had been thoroughly punished for it by society until he couldn’t interact with anyone without lashing out first to defend himself.

Peter liked him.

Under the layer of defensive assholery, Ortega was funny, genuine, and mischievous. He was also spiteful and petty, far too fond of using underhanded tactics to annoy Richards or anyone else who got on his nerves, but Peter didn’t blame him too much. It wasn’t like the man was outright _evil_ , just a bit petty. He was also smart as hell and not afraid to show it, handing Peter’s ass to him several times when they talked shop over lunch. Usually he did it by solving equations in his head that Peter would have had to write out for a minute or two before getting an answer. And it didn’t hurt that the Omega was easy on the eyes even when he was scowling, and downright gorgeous when his face lit up with delight. Usually, Peter would have tried to get a leg over on someone like Ortega, but the man’s initial reaction to anyone Alpha told him Ortega wouldn’t appreciate it, might even end their friendship over it.

Thinking of Ortega as a _friend_ gave Peter pause, wondering how long it’d really been since he’d had a friend that thinking of a coworker from his cover as one was strange. A long time, if his memory was correct. It didn’t help that his nemesis didn’t seem to be skipping town any time soon, settled in his warehouse on Second and Division, and apparently _very_ annoyed that Peter kept showing up to thwart him.

After a few weeks of intense coding and monitoring of Mystery’s website, Peter managed to set up an activity monitor that recorded when anyone contacted Mystery, and when Mystery logged on in response. It wasn’t a fool-proof way to detect his activity; several times Peter hurried to the warehouse to find it empty with no sign of recent activity after a flurry of hits on Mystery’s website, but after a while Peter picked up a pattern and began to show up when Mystery was most likely to be working: the day _after_ the highest amount of activity on Mystery’s website. And before Peter knew it, he had a routine. It was strange and almost nice all at once. He grew to like his day job at the college, teaching reminded him of things he hadn’t thought of in years, of people he’d buried under grief and work and the earth.

It hurt a little, too, when that came back to the surface, so he pushed the deja vu aside and instead focused on the moment, and enjoyed it. Despite the college’s lack of providing a full-time translator, he got on well enough with power points and written lectures, and his students engaged much more eagerly than he anticipated, especially when he introduced live projects that apparently Ortega was the only other person in the STEM building to usually allow. And aside from his work at the college, Peter found himself getting to know the people there as well. Myra Bernard taught ASL there and chatted with him often, despite the fact that she found his humor a bit awkward, but most people did. But what Peter found best about the college was Ortega. _Miggs_ , the man insisted after a few weeks. It was still strange to have a friend, but Peter found he liked it.

His work for O.W.C.A. didn’t stop either, monitoring and thwarting Mystery becoming part of his weekly routine as easily as if he’d been doing this for years, rather than missions more reminiscent of classic Bond films. After three more months, Peter was doing his best to settle into his new routine, but long-term undercover hadn’t really been his bag. A couple weeks, a month, he’d done that before, but nothing like this, which appeared to be...permanent.

Peter knew a lot of agents were like this, had a nemesis they saw every so often to every day, but Peter wasn’t very good at... _commitment_.

That fact circled the campus as well, and Peter was a little surprised to find sex easy to find, a few casual partners popping up but no interest in more than a quickie every once in awhile, and he stopped getting asked out on dates, and the weird gifts from hopefuls trickled to a stop.

If only his baseless sense of impending doom would take the hint as well.

 

_…...June 2nd_

* * *

 

Peter didn’t really notice he’d started preparing more food than one person could eat for lunch regularly until he was staring into a fridge so full of leftovers he’d have to be taking them to work for lunch every day for the next fortnight in order to clear them all out before most of them went bad. Frowning, he straightened up to absently examine the handful of magnets stuck to his freezer, two of which held up his grocery list for the week. The slip of paper pinned to the white exterior by the free magnet China East down the street had given him the last time he’d visited (odd, he’d thought at the time. No one else had gotten a magnet, and if he thought hard about it, the woman behind the counter had seemed a bit nervous about it. Perhaps she hadn’t been allowed? It didn’t matter, he set the thought aside), read _milk, paneer, cumin_ and a few other things, and he wondered why he’d started burning through groceries faster than usual. Was he boredom eating? He didn’t _feel_ bored, and it wasn’t as though he was _eating_ more than usual, just cooking, going by the surplus of tupperware in his refrigerator.

Shutting the door and wondering how long he’d last eating leftovers before he cracked and returned to cooking to relieve stress and kill time between his day job, nemesis, and the occasional foray for O.W.C.A. that didn’t involve Mystery, Peter put the dishes from his dinner in the sink and wiped down the stove and counters from making the meal, trying to puzzle out this odd behavior of his. Perhaps it was just because he had little else to do besides work and veg out in front of his laptop or TV, he considered, scrubbing at a bit of tomato paste that had started to dry on the countertop with the sponge that was starting to need replacing. He added _sponges_ to the list on the fridge, trying not to mull over how…. _domestic_ his life had become. He’d moved so often before, buying food wasn’t odd, but replacing the commodities of his apartment like sponges and toilet paper hadn’t been a part of his routine for a long time. That’d been sort of irritating, the first time he’d run out of the latter. Not to mention a bit gross, considering he’d been _on_ the toilet at the time.

Rinsing the sponge and putting it back on the edge of the sink, Peter washed his hands and sighed, giving up for now on the conundrum of the extra food. It was probably just boredom.

 

_…….June 3rd_

* * *

 

It was not boredom.

Miggs’ lunch smelled nauseating, the greasy, over-processed meat hitting Peter’s senses like an oily wave, making him wonder how the hell Miggs ate like that and didn’t at the very least get sick of it. It hadn’t bothered Peter much at first, Miggs’ diet of fast food and other processed junk. Miggs ate what he ate, and so did Peter.

He looked down at the tupperware of leftovers he’d brought to lunch today, and finally realized what his subconscious had been up to. Peter had begun cooking for two without realizing it, had packed more than he could eat alone for his lunch, and his newest suspicion that he’d just been eating less rather than cooking more died a quick death.

Peter wondered, as Miggs talked about the results of his latest pop-quiz for his students (ranting about how he couldn’t wait for Barnes’ last batch of students to move out of his class, Peter noted in case Miggs realized he wasn’t paying much attention), if that was weird. If other people cooked for their friends because they worried about them dying of a grease-induced heart-attack before hitting forty. Shoving a spoonful of khichdi into his mouth, Peter made a mental note to bring a separate tupperware of the extra food he’d been bringing  and not eating for Miggs tomorrow. Surely it would be _less_ weird if he offered Miggs his own container and cutlery.

 

_…...June 4th_

* * *

 

He decided on the coriander rice since it’d been made the most recently and would taste the least like it’d been sitting in the fridge for ages. Peter had hesitated, staring at the plastic full of rice and vegetables his hand was inches away from choosing. Fidgeting with his fingers, Peter turned his wrist to check the face of his watch. He technically had some time before he had to be at the college. He could cook a new dish, bring fresh food—

His watch buzzed and lit up in his face, and he straightened so quickly in surprise he smacked the back of his head on the edge of the open fridge, making him yelp.

Peter answered the call from O.W.C.A. trying not to grimace, nodding as Hoffman offered him a brief job, should only be a few hours tonight after he left the college. He tossed the container of coriander rice into his lunchbox to keep it cold and that went into his bag as she kept talking, detailing the brief break-in they wanted him to perform on a local politician to get intel on his involvement with a villain in the last city he’d lived in. Nothing Peter hadn’t done a million times before, he could probably do it in his sleep. Hoffman dismissed him and sent the files to his email as he was heading down the stairs to his bike.

He didn’t realize he’d forgotten to split the food into two tupperware and bring an extra fork until he was sitting down at his usual table on the pavilion to meet Miggs for lunch, who came walking up with a bag from Burger King swinging in one hand.

“So I taped a fish under Richards’ desk three days ago and he just now found it,” was Miggs’ greeting, and Peter was briefly distracted from his internal debate of waiting until tomorrow to offer Miggs something that wasn’t a thin, greasy patty with a side of oily fries or just going for it. Peter lifted an eyebrow as Miggs sat down, earning a sly grin. “You’d have given it away, you always smirk at him when I’ve done something and he doesn’t know.” Peter rolled his eyes. His poker face was one of the best on the planet, he had an international reputation for it. The idea that he found Miggs’ antics amusing enough to break that poker face was ridiculous.

Though troubling, if true.

 _Why a fish?_ Peter asked, popping the lid to his food as Miggs glanced at the note pushed at him.

“Because he’s a sour old trout,” Miggs snorted. “And he tried to fail Ramirez for his _spelling_ in a fucking math class.” Peter raised his eyebrow again as Miggs dug around in his bag of heart-stopping fast food to pull out a carton of fries and a small burger wrapped in grease-stained paper with two stickers peeling off it. “He made three spelling mistakes on the midterm and Richards wanted to throw it out.” Miggs rolled his eyes, shoving a couple fries into his mouth and swallowing them before adding, “That boy got into this school at _sixteen_ for his math alone, I am not letting Richards keep him out of my class for a minute longer than he absolutely has to. He can write his essays in Spanish for me, at least.” Peter hummed and invited Miggs to describe Richards’ absolute fury at finding a rotting, smelly fish duct-taped to the underside of his desk, the source of a smell that had been lingering basically since Miggs had placed it there.  

Peter poked at his food and grinned as Miggs started to laugh so hard he had to lean on the table a little, trying to put into words the look on Richards’ face when he’d realized he’d be unable to pin the crime on Miggs. As Miggs recovered, the conversation between them lulled, and Peter’s stomach suddenly quivered with anxiety as he realized he’d reached a bit of a now-or-never moment when it came to offering Miggs food. He didn’t know _why_ he felt like he had to do this so badly, looking up to catch Miggs popping a small white pill between his lips, which were still curled in a satisfied smile. His hair was a bit frizzy from the day’s rain (Peter thought he’d never be used to how much it rained here) and his eyes were just a touch glassy with distant thought.

Miggs swallowed the pill dry and then unwrapped his burger, taking a bite as the frankly revolting smell of cooked meat and greasy onions hit Peter’s nose.

Grabbing his notepad, Peter bit the inside of his cheek hard, trying to give himself courage as he scratched out a note and pushed it at Miggs.

_You’re eating junk again. How R U so skinny?_

Miggs blinked down at the note before looking up at him, mouth pausing in mid-chew before he swallowed.

“It’s not junk,” he said, taking another indignant bite and downing that too as Peter pulled his notepad back, quickly adding, “It’s better than the slop they serve in the dining hall.” Peter didn’t bother hiding the eye roll that brought. The dining hall was mostly intended for students, but several of the faculty ate there regularly for the convenience. While the food was only a few steps above the sad things public grade school students called meals, it wasn’t quite slop either. At least they had options beyond pizza, chicken nuggets, and milk cartons. Peter took a bite of his own food, trying to quell the quiet frustration and disappointment that seemed determined to fester in the back of his mind. It was just _food_.

“Probably better than what you’re eating, too,” Miggs muttered, and Peter couldn’t help the affronted look he immediately gave. “What, that’s rice and sauce and green bits. It can’t be that good. Good _for_ you maybe, but probably tastes bland as fuck.” Peter huffed, emboldened by the baseless insult to his cooking. Sure, the rice had been in the fridge for a couple days and was a tad gluier for it, and he preferred to eat it hot, but it wasn’t _bland_. It was definitely better than the eight dollar artery-clogging mess Miggs was eating.

Jabbing his spoon into his over sized lunch, Peter scooped free a bite and pushed it at Miggs, who paused, staring at it like Peter had suddenly pointed a gun at him. Peter puzzled at the brief look of shock and then tentative confusion on Miggs’ face.

“What are you doing?” Miggs asked after a minute, glancing between the offered bite and Peter’s face. Peter held the frustrated, insulted look like stone held its shape, not letting Miggs see the sudden wash of nerves his reaction brought. He wondered if it actually _was_ weird to be offering Miggs part of his lunch, if he was crossing some societal taboo he’d been unaware of, like many others over his life. But Peter’s ability to cook, the one thing he truly prided himself on (outside of whose son he was and the few very good things he’d done in his career as a secret agent), had been challenged by his only friend, and he wouldn’t back away from that.

Snagging his notepad with one hand, Peter quickly scrawled, _just eat it, you dick._

Miggs glanced at the message, bit his lip, soft flesh caught between gapped front teeth and hidden lower ones before he opened his mouth obligingly and let Peter push the spoon between his lips. Peter watched intently for his reaction, trying very hard to ignore the bit of himself gibbering with anxiety in the back of his head. The rice wasn’t his best work, it’d been sitting a few days and if Miggs was picky about texture it could be an absolute nightmare, he could _hate_ it, hate _Peter_.

Miggs’ facial features, familiar and easy to read after these last weeks, passed through surprise, pleasure, and then moved to being impressed, one hand coming up to cover his mouth as he chewed and Peter rested both elbows back on the table by his dish.

“It’s _good_ ,” Miggs said when he swallowed, blinking at Peter, who snorted and nodded, feeling almost unbearably smug and satisfied. Peter popped another bite into his own mouth, wondering if this was too bold, but as he set the spoon down to pick up his pen again. He’d already come this far, and Miggs could always just say no. (He ignored how his guts quivered at the idea of that; it wasn’t the end of the world if Miggs preferred fast food, if Miggs rejected Peter’s offer for…for food? Of course it was for food. Just food. What else could it be?)

_Brought enough 4 2 ppl. Just in case._

Peter tried not to hesitate before turning the pad of paper towards Miggs, who blushed just reading it before looking up. He was so pretty when he blushed, and Peter did his best to stomp on those thoughts before they grew treacherously. He’d like to _keep_ this friendship, thank you very much, not lose it because his dick couldn’t be satisfied with the easy flings he found regularly.

“Okay,” Miggs said, dropping his burger into the bag and scooting around the table a bit to be sitting next to Peter. The sudden warm glow of delight Peter felt at the accepted offer felt disproportionate; it was _just food._

(But Miggs was blushing again, and he blushed oh, _so_ pretty. It was so _easy_ to make him blush, too. All Peter had to do was show him basic kindness and Miggs soaked it up like a desert plant soaking up rain. It shouldn’t be like that and Peter wanted to punch every single person who had made Miggs feel like he needed to retreat into and protect himself with a shell of anger and mistrust. Miggs didn’t deserve to be so starved for affection that just acting happy to see him could bring warmth to his cheeks, that offering him a good meal made him duck his head with shyness to hide the pleased look on his features.)

Peter tried not to feel too awkward as he held up the spoon and wiggled it a little, conveying without words that he’d only brought the one.

“I don’t, um. I don’t mind sharing,” Miggs said after a second, looking down at his lap and then not looking back up, the usual iron-strong ramrod of defiance gone from his demeanor for the moment. “I mean, you already put it in my mouth, so unless you just don’t want to do that anymore or whatever, I don’t mind sharing it.”

Peter felt a little light-headed at how… _right_ it felt as he began passing the spoon back and forth between them, sitting close enough for Peter to scent Miggs every time he opened his mouth. It felt as natural as breathing, an unsteadying notion, since it wasn’t something he’d felt since he’d shared a meal with his parents, but just slightly off, which Peter assumed must have been because Miggs wasn’t family. It was nice. He’d missed that kind of closeness with another person, without even realizing that it was something he’d missed, like the gap of a lost tooth after the ache was gone, feeling it only when he touched it.

Honestly, Peter was tempted to pull Miggs close against his side and rub his cheek against Miggs’ hair until he _did_ smell like family. Like he _belonged_ to Peter.

 _That_ , he knew, would _definitely_ be crossing the line into weird.

So instead Peter settled for sitting close and breathing deeply through his mouth every time it wasn’t full of food. Miggs’ scent filled his senses this close; he didn’t smell like family or Peter, but had a scent all his own, something like ozone and machine oil and dry erase markers, all touched to the waxy smell of blueprint paper and the chemicals of his shampoo, all things Peter had smelled before, on their own and combined every which way, with each other and with others, but _this_. This was the way Miggs smelled, and Miggs alone, and Peter found it fascinating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading ;u; 
> 
> comments are love, comments are life
> 
> lmk if we missed any mistakes or [brackets]


	6. 05 | Rappeling

_ …..June 5th _

* * *

 

Peter was developing a habit of staring into his fridge, it seemed. He hoped it wouldn’t be a lasting one, it wasn’t as if the contents would change if he looked long enough. At the moment, he was trying to remember if he had all the ingredients for palak paneer, shutting the fridge to peruse through his cupboards instead. 

After yesterday’s incredibly successful experiment of feeding Miggs something that didn’t come out of a paper bag and/or a fryer, Peter was eager to see if he could make a trend of it. The idea of feeding Miggs good, healthy food regularly made something in his chest swell, and the knowledge that it would probably make Miggs healthier and happy as well (if the way Miggs had nearly  _ glowed  _ by the end of their shared lunch had been anything to go by), had something in the back of Peter’s head howling in triumph and demanding he do it again. As an Alpha Peter routinely ignored and suppressed his own instincts; he wasn’t one to run around ruled by the cock in his pants and the beast of his basest desires, but Peter saw no harm in indulging them now. Well, not his cock. While he wouldn’t  _ mind  _ taking Miggs to bed (or on a table, the floor, any horizontal surface, really. Or vertical. Walls worked just as good. Or he could pick him up.  _ Stop _ .) he knew it wasn’t welcome from the nearly venomous look Miggs gave any Alpha that came near him stinking of  _ intentions _ . 

But the bit of Peter that was rooted in instinct and intuition that told him to feed Miggs, to make him healthy and happy and safe? There was nothing wrong with  _ that _ , surely. 

Tapping his fingers on the door to his spice cupboard along with the music playing cheerily from the radio in his kitchen, Peter hummed in thought. He had plenty of paneer and spinach after his grocery run early this morning before work, but the aisle with spices in the little grocery down the street had been a bit subpar and he’d needed to venture further than he’d had time for to get the spices on his list and put it off. He was regretting that a bit now, since he was missing a few spices needed for palak paneer, and it was one of his best dishes. Peter added underlines to the list on his fridge and one of the spices he hadn’t put on there yet before grabbing ingredients and a few things he would substitute in. If it didn’t work out, he still had a simple veggie and tofu stir-fry in the fridge that he could bring tomorrow. But…

He kind of wanted to impress Miggs, if he was being honest with himself. So the palak paneer as option one and the stirfry as backup if he couldn’t make it work. 

Turning the radio up a couple notches (loud enough to truly fill his kitchen with noise, but not enough to really bother his neighbors at this hour of the evening), Peter set to work. Water was put on to boil and some leftover ghee in a frying pan to heat. 

A Love Händel song he recognized came on, and Peter cheerfully hummed along as he washed the spinach and left it in a colander in the sink to wait for the water to start boiling. He flicked a wet index finger at the ghee and shrugged when it didn’t so much as sputter; he still had plenty of time before the pan was hot enough to fry on, then. Grabbing a cutting board and knife, he cut up the paneer and set it aside, then started chopping up the rest of the ingredients. 

_ “But like a ninja of love, rappelling down from above, you snuck your way right into my heart,” _ Danny crooned, and Peter chuckled quietly, shaking his head. How would one  _ sneak  _ into someone else’s heart? Was it even possible to not notice falling in love with someone? From the way he’d always heard it described, seen it in real life and not some silly thing on TV or in books, it was pretty unmistakable. True, he only had second-hand accounts to go by, but they’d all been pretty clear on one thing: when you loved someone, you just  _ knew _ . 

Peter hadn’t been  _ entirely  _ bereft of love, of course. He’d loved his parents, gratitude and affection intermingled whenever he thought of them and how joyful they had been to welcome into their lives. He had happily mirrored their easy love and acceptance, and it soon had come naturally to him. So it wasn’t as if he was  _ entirely  _ ignorant to what love was like. 

But that was a different kind of love, platonic rather than romantic. Romantic love was something he’d eventually realized he would just have to take other people’s word on. He wondered, sometimes, if some part of his childhood had permanently damaged him, if the abandonment issues that had made him shake so hard he’d been sent to the nurse when his parents dropped him off at school the first time had followed him into this aspect of life as well. Or maybe he had just been born without it, another bit of him broken, missing,  _ difficult to manage, are you sure— _

Shaking his head, Peter frowned, mood soured by that train of thought. He lowered his knife for a brief moment to take a breath, being sure the blade wouldn’t waver dangerously from trembling hands. Returning to his task, Peter slowly breathed out again, pushing the negative feelings out with the air. It was fine, at least he could feel attraction. And it had actually been a boon in the past, so unwilling to trap someone in a loveless bond that he’d never felt the urge to bite down on a Omega’s neck, leaving him one of few Alphas that could resist the siren lure of an Omega’s heat. He was lucky he’d gotten a reputation at the college so quickly, leading to plenty of no-strings sex, usually there or sometimes a hotel, sometimes at their homes. He never brought them here. He hadn’t had to explain to anyone he didn’t do dating in a few weeks, and the last few partners that had approached him hadn’t even suggested it. It was one of the few very nice things about being settled in one place, he didn’t have to start over entirely every couple weeks when it came to building a bit of a network, on either side of his double life. The cover was always harder to maintain, though. Couldn’t quite go visit a hookup that had known him as Peter Sanders when he had an ID that named him Peter Phillips. 

Still, Peter had two jobs he enjoyed, some good friends, and a fairly active sex life. Love was just an extra that looked nice on other people but wasn’t for him. Probably for the best, anyway. No telling what kind of genes he’d pass on if he tried to have pups. No kid should have that put on them if it could be prevented. 

Wiping his hands on a kitchen towel, Peter reached over and bumped the radio up a couple more notches, making a mental note to turn it down again in an hour or so, when the time started to inch closer to night than evening. The song had switched to something upbeat and with a bit too much autotune, but it wasn’t about love. 

With the music blaring through his kitchen, he tossed a few cumin seeds into the pan, smiling when the ghee started sizzling around them. The paneer was quickly added to the pan and while it fried, Peter grabbed the colander and pushed the spinach into the now-boiling water, then put a lid on the pot. While he mentally counted up to two minutes, he got out a bowl and an ice tray and twisted a few cubes into the bowl. He set it in one side of the sink and filled it the rest of the way with cold water. He wasn’t sure what the purpose of the ice bath was exactly, but his father had always done it like that when Peter watched him cook. 

Smiling as he got out a wooden spoon and turned the paneer in the hissing pan, Peter affectionately thought back on all the times he had been allowed to help his dad prepare meals. There was something comforting in the way Mahendra Orso had moved from one dish to the other, hands flowing as easily as if he were speaking a special kind of sign language that only food could understand. You cooked for the people you cared about, his father had taught him. You showed that care with the food you set before them. 

No one had cared about Miggs Ortega in a very long time, Peter was almost certain. It was about time that changed.

* * *

 

The mall was not a place Miggs often frequented. It was crowded and usually packed with babbling teenagers and families with babies, and while most people had the decency to mask their scents at least a little, places packed with people like this were always a hotbed of overstimulation. But it wasn’t like Miggs could  _ make  _ Peter a courting gift. Well, he could, but it would be a bit too strange. Miggs was a villain for a reason, and anything he made would show it. But he could definitely  _ modify  _ something. 

The parking spot he’d found was in the back of the lot, which he was both thankful for and cursed, since it meant he wouldn’t likely be caught in any traffic trying to leave, but it was a long walk from the car to just the mall itself, and he found himself fumbling preemptively for the small orange bottle he kept in his coat pocket to pop open and push one green and white pill into his mouth and swallow. It was smooth and waxy on his tongue and went down like every pill he took every day, the ease of long practice making it so he didn’t often need anything to swallow them dry. Tucking the pain medication back in his pocket, Miggs hobbled inside and began looking for a map of the place, mulling over his strange day. 

He hadn’t expected Peter to want to court him. 

Well, that wasn’t exactly true, he  _ had  _ expected it, back when they’d first met a few months ago. That’s how it  _ always  _ happened, an Alpha came sniffing around, smelling him even under the suppressants and either expected Miggs to fall down at their feet right there, legs spread and begging for it, or holding out gifts like simpering idiots, desperate to be accepted. All of them got their  _ gifts  _ trashed and some a punch in the nose, depending on how irritating or persistent they were. Miggs didn’t want to be like most Omegas, he didn’t want to be some homely little house-bound mate that popped out litters of squalling babies until he died. He didn’t want an Alpha telling him what to do and how to do it, in and out of bed, in and out of Heat. So chocolates and coffee and flowers and cards had gone into the garbage (or sometimes, into the suitor’s face, or even out the window). 

And then there had been Peter. 

It was silly and stupid, and Miggs knew it, standing in front of the mall directory and rubbing at one side of his face as he read over the list of stores in the center and checked them against the map beside it. Silly and stupid and vapid and  _ ridiculous _ , to think he’d been waiting all his life, just for  _ Peter _ . 

But it sort of felt that way. 

Miggs had thought, at first, that Peter just wasn’t interested. And he’d thought that until yesterday, right up until Peter offered him food, holding out not just a bite of rice with peas and parsley in it, but the first step of courtship, an instinctive ritual as old as humanity itself. 

It’d taken everything Miggs had had not to fling himself over the table at Peter and demand he take him right there. 

Miggs’ cheeks burned at the thought, locating the store he wanted and starting to make his way through the crowds to it. He wouldn’t lie, he hadn’t been interested in Peter when he’d met him. Sure, Peter was attractive, tall and broad and stinking like powerful, virile Alpha. He was quiet and something about him spoke of being carefully reigned in, and Miggs had pegged him as just another Nice Guy Alpha. 

But he’d been wrong. 

Oh, Peter was nice, yes, but he’d become friends with Miggs for a reason. He was brilliant and had an edge to him that made him laugh when Miggs did terrible things like tape a fish under a respected coworker’s desk. Miggs liked that. He liked it a whole lot. 

And that liking had grown to almost longing. Almost. Miggs wasn’t stupid. Peter could have any Omega he wanted, and Miggs knew Peter knew that. Every Alpha knew that. It was why Richards hated him, why people loved Peter, students and faculty alike. It wasn’t the first time people had been jealous of Miggs, but it was the first time they loathed him for who he was friends with. 

To be fair, Miggs hadn’t had many friends to prop Peter up against for comparison. 

The handrail of warm rubber slid under Miggs’ hand as he stepped onto the short escalator from the raised floor of the mall into the deeper sub-level, watching others traipse down the stairs or the ramp, a small child taking a tumble and screeching at the top of its lungs as its sire rushed to quickly gather it up. Miggs winced and dug a finger in the ear closest to the screaming pup. He couldn’t much imagine listening to that all day, every day, from half a dozen throats. 

Still, he hadn’t been able to deny the quiet burn he’d felt recently as he’d looked at Peter. Even on suppressants that stopped his Heat and dulled his Omega senses to an extent, Miggs could feel part of him desperate for Peter, and not just for sex. Though that  _ was  _ part of it. Miggs knew lust well enough, had broken to it before, and he knew Heat more than he’d like to, even though it’d only been the once. But he didn’t want Peter pushing him face down and mounting him, knotting him, and then leaving. 

Miggs flushed as he walked, shoving his hands into his pockets and scowling at the ground. Maybe the first few wouldn’t be so bad, but the leaving. That he definitely didn’t want, and the few men Miggs had been with that didn’t want to bond him had always left. It was only to be expected. 

But Peter, as usual, had managed to surprise him. 

When Peter hadn’t demanded Miggs fall at his feet and submit immediately when they’d first met, Miggs had assumed he wasn’t interested. And that had been a relief, later, but eventually it had stung, because Miggs had realized  _ he  _ was interested in Peter. It took getting to know him, but it was true. If Miggs had ever wanted a mate (and again, he couldn’t lie to himself, he had, and did, no matter what he spat at unwelcome suitors), he would have it be Peter. He’d thought, briefly, of offering first. It wasn’t uncommon, for an Omega to offer an Alpha a gift first, opening the first step of courtship between mating pairs. But he’d been too scared of not just rejection, but of losing Peter’s friendship, and  _ nothing  _ was worth that. 

Miggs entered the store he’d come here for, which was much quieter than the thoroughfares of the mall outside, and the air inside the store was filtered much more rigorously as well. He took a long breath to clear his lungs of too many strangers’ scents before starting to browse quietly, still a bit lost in thought. 

Peter had obviously noticed Miggs was an Omega; the first time they’d met Miggs himself had brought it up, and since then Peter had seen Miggs take his suppressants with lunch every day. But other than that, Peter had never even blinked about it. 

And then he’d given Miggs food, shared a meal with him, hell, shared the fucking  _ spoon  _ with him. It was a pretty blatant offer. And Miggs, as soon as he’d looked at Peter and seen determination and just a touch of nervousness in the tightness around his eyes behind his dark sunglasses, had snatched up that offer immediately. He’d wanted to go further, to lean into Peter and scent him, get their smells all over each other and warn any other Omega off his Alpha immediately and permanently—

Miggs blinked rapidly, staring down at a black iPod in a plastic package with matching headphones. It wasn’t uncommon for friends to accidentally open the door to courtship either, one giving another a gift, of food or something else. He hadn’t been sure,  _ couldn’t  _ be sure, even now. All he could do is offer a return gift, and hope Peter would accept it, accept Miggs’ returned interest. It could easily just be a mistake. It was more than possible Peter was just trying to be a good friend, it was  _ probable _ . After all, beyond being an Omega and pretty if not for the scowl on his face, there wasn’t much to be desired about Miggs. His face was the only pretty bit about him, the rest of his scarred and bits of him twisted, and his temperament one most found terribly off-putting. And they were best friends, after all. It was only natural to want to take care of each other, right? 

At least, Miggs liked to think they were best friends. He frowned at the iPod so hard the attendant that had been trying to get his attention for the last couple minutes looked a little frightened, as if worried Miggs might be there to rob the place. 

Peter was Miggs’ only friend, so he was sort of the default. Well, he was Miggs’ only friend that talked to him regularly and he saw often. Vincent still emailed him, but she liked to dredge up bad memories with nosy questions like  _ how’s your back  _ and  _ are you still seeing that therapist _ and the like. 

“I’d like to buy that one,” Miggs said, just to ease the sweating attendant nearly hopping from one foot to the other in agitation. He gestured at the iPod when the attendant jumped, and they scrambled to get it for him as he walked to the register. He supposed Matty from his college days counted as a friend too, though he was endlessly busy with family and work. He mostly just sent occasional emails and the yearly holiday card, like Miggs was some relative he was tasked with checking in on occasionally to make sure he hadn’t died. 

Really, Peter was about it. Miggs doubted Peter felt the same, though. He had loads of people he was friends with. Surely he would prefer a best friend that could actually talk with him, like that ASL teacher he hung around with a lot, and that didn’t bite his head off every few sentences. 

She didn’t laugh at his jokes the way Miggs did though, and Peter’s face never had that crooked sort of smile and soft eyes Miggs liked to think were just for him. 

In the end, Peter  _ had  _ offered Miggs food. And Miggs was interested in courting with Peter. Still, it would be better not to appear  _ too  _ interested. So nothing too expensive, but nothing too flippant. There was a chance Peter already owned a portable player, knowing his near-ridiculous love of music, but Miggs had never seen him with one, and it was the only thing he could think of that Peter might actually like. 

“Would you like the—” the attendant asked as he dug around for his wallet before pulling out his credit card. 

“No,” Miggs said dismissively, mentally flipping through which parts he could probably swap out in the iPod to modify it a bit, which would void any warranty it had. He was sure Peter wouldn’t mind or question it too much, mundane people were so ready to ignore the strange things that happened around villains. Though, if they started courting, that would probably be something he would have to talk to Peter about. Eventually. After the rest of Miggs’ messy and difficult list of secrets. 

Miggs left the mall and walked back to his car, feeling a little stiff but not in any real pain. He tossed the iPod in the passenger seat while he drove, worrying at his lip as he headed home, fingers tapping at the wheel whenever he was caught in traffic. 

When he did finally get home, he sat down at his kitchen table and ripped open the package and then pried the casing of the iPod open, frowning at all the little bits and pieces inside before dragging a box of parts and tools closer to start fiddling with it. One burn to the tip of his index finger and a little bit of blood accidentally on one of the changed wires later, Miggs put it back together. It was a little heavier than before, but not too noticeably. 

Tapping at the buttons and then plugging it in to charge with an irritated sigh, Miggs brought it to life and smiled when it worked perfectly. Dragging out his laptop, Miggs connected the two and settled the headphones it had come with over his ears. 

He spent the next three hours downloading music onto the iPod. He grimaced most of the time, the teeny bopper pop that Peter preferred cheerfully playing through the speakers as he made sure he was downloading the right songs. After finding that Peter took the bus every day that it rained (which was…well, every day, here), they’d started carpooling to work together, and Miggs knew most of Peter’s favorites and wanted to get as many onto the modified player as he could. 

He also added a few new ones he was pretty sure Peter would like, and then hesitated before quickly adding a few songs that sat between their two genres and made Miggs think of Peter whenever he heard them. The songs were a bit more romantic than what either of them listened to in the car together, but if Peter didn’t reject the gift, then that meant they were courting, and romantic gestures would be a bit of a given. 

Still, the thought of giving Peter an iPod loaded up with love songs made him so nervous he got a bit nauseous, so he only ended up putting on two or three, shuffling them in with the rest so they weren’t quite so noticeable. 

When he was finished, Miggs put the iPod and headphones on top of his bag before going to bed so he wouldn’t forget them the next morning when he left before truly waking up for the day. He then crawled into bed, trying and failing not to over-think giving Peter the return gift. He ended up tossing and turning into the early hours of the morning before finally falling asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading :') 
> 
> comments are love comments are life
> 
> lmk if we missed any mistakes or [brackets]


	7. 06 | Sugar, Sugar

It was overcast but not raining the next day, so Miggs headed straight to the school without swinging by to pick up Peter. Sure enough, Peter’s motorcycle was already parked in the faculty lot as Miggs pulled into his space. 

Miggs tried not to think too hard about the iPod burning a hole in his pocket as he shuffled into the STEM building, groggily sipping at his travel mug of coffee as he tried to remember how to unlock his classroom. His key missed the mark a few times before he finally managed to twist the door open to let in students.

A tap on his shoulder made him jump, mug and keys slipping from his fingers. A hand shot past Miggs and grabbed the mug before it could fall very far, and Miggs scowled as his keys hit the floor with a clatter. Bending at the waist, Miggs snatched them up and then turned to blink at whoever had startled him.

He had to tilt his head back a little to look at Peter, who appeared a little windswept and was wearing his leather jacket, frowning at Miggs as he handed the mug back. Peter curled his fingers into an okay gesture, pointing at Miggs with his other hand and raising his eyebrows to make it a question.

Miggs nodded wordlessly, heart in his throat as he stared up at his Alpha. Peter smelled amazing this close, like rain and fresh air and coffee, and Miggs suddenly regretted that the weather was never nice enough to warrant Peter picking him up in the morning, despite the fact that Miggs held firm to the belief that Peter’s bike was a fast and sure way to get a one-way ticket into a wooden box.

Peter peered at him for a second before shrugging, slipping his bag off one shoulder to unzip it and show Miggs the tupperware inside. Enough for two.

Okay, if Peter _wasn’t_ trying to court Miggs, he was doing a damn good job of playing a fool, offering him food two days in a row.

Miggs’ breath caught a little at Peter’s uncertain, concerned look, and Miggs nodded, momentarily robbed for words. He fumbled at his pocket, juggling his keys and coffee in order to drag out the iPod.

“I, um, I have something for you, if you want it,” Miggs said, swallowing the _if you want me_ , that tried to follow on the heels of his offer. He swore as he nearly dropped the iPod and then quickly held it up with an awkward, nervous smile. Peter blinked at it a few times before Miggs scrambled to pull the over-ear headphones to match it out of his bag. “Um, these, here, I got these too, uh, I know you like music, so,” he said, already kicking himself for rambling like an idiot. “I modified it a little, and it’s got all your favorites.”

Peter’s expression piqued with interest, and he hesitantly reached for the iPod.

“Professor?”

“What?” Miggs snapped, turning to see a student nervously peering out from the door to his classroom.

“Class is supposed to be starting,” she squeaked, blushing when Peter glanced at her. Miggs scowled. The girl was one of his few Omega students, unbonded, and like all the other Omegas running around the campus without a mate, she was interested in his Alpha.

Miggs shook his head, trying not to growl in irritation. Peter wasn’t his Alpha. He hadn’t even taken Miggs’ return gift yet, so he wasn’t even sure if they were going to try courting.

“Sit down, I’ll be there in a second,” Miggs finally snapped, the the Omega vanished back into the classroom. Miggs turned to look at Peter again, who was watching him curiously. “So. Um. If—if you want it, take it. We both have class to teach.” Miggs shoved the iPod at Peter, struggling not to blush or tremble as Peter didn’t move for a second.

And then Peter pulled out his notepad, hesitating for a beat before he started writing.

Miggs dropped the gift to his side, bracing for the inevitable rejection. He should have known better. There was no way Peter was interested in him, he was just trying to be a good friend.

Fuck, he’d been so hopeful, so _stupid—_

Then Peter held up the note, smiling a little shyly as he cut off Miggs’ internal rant of self-loathing.

_Thanks._

Miggs blinked as Peter tucked his notepad away again to lean in and carefully pluck the iPod from Miggs’ fingers. Peter smiled a little at the iPod as he tapped at the buttons before looking up to smile at Miggs, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at his classroom. Miggs nodded numbly and didn’t even move when Peter left, still fiddling with the iPod as he vanished into his classroom.

He’d taken the gift.

Peter had accepted Miggs’ courtship gift.

A ridiculously giddy smile spread over Miggs’ face and he quickly fought to stifle it. He was still wrestling with his facial muscles, trying to scowl as he walked into his classroom. He managed to get his usual thunderous expression in place by the time he had everyone’s attention, but he was unable to quell the slight spring in his step as he jumped into his lecture.

* * *

 

Distracted by exploring the settings and scrolling through the songs, Peter barely greeted his class as he entered, only looking up when one of them hesitantly spoke up to get his attention. Lifting one hand, Peter absently patted the air downward in the direction of the class as he dumped his backpack on his desk. Reluctantly, he turned off the iPod and then tucked it into one of the side pockets, then pulled out his notes. Unzipping and shrugging out of his jacket, he flashed his usual bright smile at his students as he draped it over the back of his chair.

Picking up a marker, Peter turned to the whiteboard to start the day’s lesson, checking his notes as he wrote and pausing to answer a question or two.

His mind wandered as he transcribed his lecture, thinking fondly of Miggs’ faint blush earlier. It had looked…very appealing on him, all pursed mouth and intense eyes, skin dark with emotion…shaking himself, Peter again reminded himself that he wanted to keep this friendship. Some people got weird about sex, and Peter wasn’t sure if Miggs was one of them. He’d never smelled another Alpha on him though, so either he wasn’t the type to do casual or he just didn’t have the time or inclination. Peter would think Miggs just showered frequently when he was seeing someone, but even then the stink of Alpha tended to cling to Omegas, even through washing. He definitely would smell it, especially with how much he’d caught himself breathing in Miggs’ suppressant-dimmed scent.

“Uh, Mr. Orso…are you okay?” Peter turned at the hesitant voice, and saw…Kendra or Kindra, he always had trouble telling the twins apart, and their unimaginative parents hadn’t helped by giving them practically the same name. Either way, she was giving him a concerned look. “You’re…growling a little.”

It wasn’t until it was pointed out that Peter noticed the slight vibration in his throat and the quiet rumble of a warning growl. Clearing his throat to cut off the noise, he furrowed his eyebrows as he tried to figure out what the hell had prompted that. He quickly flashed a smile that was part bewildered and part apologetic, then scribbled a quick note on the board.

_Sorry, just remembering something._

Shaking his head a little, Peter turned back to his notes to find his place and then continued writing. What the hell? He only ever growled like that when protecting an Omega from the unwanted advances of an Alpha who couldn’t seem to understand “no” unless it came from another Alpha. Obviously there was none of that in his class right now. Maybe thinking about Miggs covered in the stink of another Alpha, someone who wouldn’t bother to get to know him properly before—

“Mr. Orso, you’re doing it again.”

Leaning his forehead against the whiteboard next to his lecture, Peter closed his eyes and groaned quietly. Well, looked like that was it. He didn’t want his friend taken advantage of by some asshole who wouldn’t appreciate him. Miggs deserved someone who would make him happy, god knew the man didn’t seem to have much happiness in his life as it was.

With a sigh, he grabbed the eraser and wiped away his previous notes and then wrote, _Instead of lecture, who wants to discuss final project today?_

The general consensus was enthusiastic, so he motioned for them to start and dug the iPod out of his bag. Making sure everything was connected, he pressed play and held up the headphones to one of his ears to make sure the sound was working. It was, so he set the headphones on his desk and started increasing the volume until he could hear it again.

The chatter of the students started to slow and trail off as they all turned toward the front again, staring at him while “Sugar Sugar” cheerfully bounced from the headphones. Peter just beamed at the class and sat down at his desk, bringing up one foot to brace it against the edge as he retied the laces.

_“You are my candy giiiirl, and you got me wantin’ yoouuu!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading ;w; 
> 
> comments are love, comments are life
> 
> lmk if we missed any mistakes or [brackets]!

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!
> 
> comments are love, comments are life
> 
> lmk if i missed any mistakes or [brackets]!


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